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“Mr. Van Dorn gave him several chances.”
“Who does he work for now?”
“I’d imagine he’s gone freelance. I’ll speak with him, find out what’s up.”
Rockefeller asked, “What is that smile on your face, Mr. Bell? There’s something going on here I don’t understand.”
“I was glad to see him. Wish Clarke is a valuable man. I just may ask him to join forces.”
“Right there! Not while he serves E. M. Hock!”
“Of course not. In the future, after we’re all safely back home.”
24
My daughter is reporting for the New York Sun!” Bill Matters exulted to John D. Rockefeller. “It’s a big feather in her cap. A wonderful step up!”
“Does she know I am in Baku?”
“Absolutely not!”
“What makes you so sure? How do you know she didn’t follow me here?”
“They sent her to cover the riots.”
“There aren’t any riots.”
“That could change in a flash, Mr. Rockefeller. You can feel it in the streets. And my daughter told me that the officials she’s interviewed sound deeply worried . . . Now, sir, I know that you can’t abide the Sun. Neither can I, but—”
Rockefeller stopped him with a gesture. “Right there! The Sun is nonsense. Newspapers are all nonsense. The less they know is all that’s important to me.”
“She doesn’t know you’re here.”
Rockefeller stared. “All right. I will have to take your word for it.”
“It’s not only my word, Mr. Rockefeller. It is my judgment. And I guarantee you, sir, if she had told me that she knew you were here, I would inform you immediately.”
Rockefeller shook his head and whispered, “She would never tell you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“All right! I’m sending you to Moscow.”
“Moscow?” Matters was stunned. How could he work on the Persian pipe line from Moscow? “Why?”
“We need those refinery contracts. You have done all you can with the local officials. Now you must convince Moscow that the Standard’s thoroughgoing, able administration will do much better for Russia’s oil business than these old, good-for-nothing, rusted-out refineries. And if you can’t find the right officials in Moscow, you’ll go on to St. Petersburg.”
“But what about the pipe line?”
“First the refineries.”
—
Isaac Bell met Aloysius Clarke on the Baku waterfront. The oily, smoky air had been cleared by a sharp wind blowing across the bay from the Caspian. Lights were visible for miles along the great crescent harbor, and Bell saw stars in the sky for the first time since he had arrived in Baku.
Bell thought his old partner looked pretty good, all things considered. He was a big, powerful man who carried his extra weight well. His face was getting fleshy from drink, his mouth had a softness associated with indulgence, and his nose had taken on the rosy hue beloved by painters portraying lushes, but his eyes were still hard and sharp. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all, unless you caught an unguarded glimpse of his eyes, which was not likely. Besides, Bell told himself, a private detective mistaken for a drunkard bought the extra seconds required to get his foot in a door.
Wish wrapped his tongue around the English language with a self-taught reader’s love. “Best job I can remember. Sumptuous feasts and the finest wines shared nightly with a pair of lookers. And Joe Van Dorn pays the piper . . . How bad’s that arm?”
